One Less Demon
by gldngrl7
Summary: After nearly losing Felicity to The Count, Oliver need to see her...needs to taste her.


Title: One Less Demon

By: gldngrl7

Date Started: November 21, 2013

Date Complete: November 30, 2013

Rating: M, E

Disclaimer: Characters owned by DC Comics/DC Entertainment/Berlanti Productions

 _And I'm damned if I do, and damned if I don't_

 _So here's to drinks in the dark at the end of the road_

 _And I'm ready to suffer, and I'm ready to hope_

 _So it's a shot in the dark, and right at my throat._

 _\- Florence and the Machine – 'Shake it Out'_

Using a brand new loofa fresh out of the packaging, Felicity scrubs her skin to within an inch of its life; especially around her chest, shoulders, arms and then as much of her back as she can reach. She washes her hair three times, squeezing the last of the shampoo from the bottle. She can still feel The Count's hands fondling her ponytail and gripping painfully at her scalp. Washing her hair a third time doesn't help; no matter how hard she massages her scalp or scrapes her fingernails at the back of her of neck.

Much later, it takes the water running cold to snap her from the zone-out that has her staring sightlessly at the gray tiles of her shower. Already fighting off the chill of adrenaline depletion, she clumsily shuts off the water and steps out of the shower. Felicity debates blow-drying her hair but even though the heat may sound tempting, her only desire is put on a sweatshirt and climb under the goose down comforter on her bed. So she settles for a thorough towel dry, knowing that she'll have to use a straightener to tame her locks before work in the morning.

Celebrations at the mansion are subdued, and while Thea is giddy to the razor's edge of insufferable, his mother seems shaken and her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. Oliver can relate.

Listening quietly, Oliver reclines idly on the living room sofa, his feet on the coffee table as his mother and Thea plan an epic girls' day tomorrow. Manicures, pedicures and exorbitantly priced highlights for Moira's lackluster hair are just the ticket after spending seven months in Iron Heights prison. Oliver's lopsided smile as he watches the women is hopeful and sweet, but it hides the sliver of panic that still races through his veins. He can feel a tremor start at the base of his spine, but he clamps down on it, making a fist with one hand and hiding it behind his head so the girls don't see.

So close, he thinks. Oliver's gut clenches at the notion of all the things that could have gone wrong tonight. What if he had turned his phone off before getting that fateful call? What if he had chosen to ignore it because it was Felicity on the other line? It wouldn't have been the first time he had dismissed her call because it came at an inopportune moment. Felicity, he knows, excels at being inopportune. It's one of the aspects of her personality he finds inexplicably endearing.

What if a verdict for his mother's case _had_ come in at the same time and he'd been forced to choose? What if he had chosen to stay and support his mother, only to have her acquitted after all? How could he have lived with himself?

"Well," Moira exhales, placing a hand under Oliver's chin and tilting his up to look at her, "I think I'll call it night."

"Mom!" Thea begs, wanting the party to go on all night. "It's still early."

"It's nearly midnight," Moira counters. "And right now – for me – a long hot shower and 750 thread count sheets are the best celebration I can think of."

Even Thea seems to understand that her mother has seven-months worth of prison to wash off and a king-sized bed calling her name. And maybe she'll have trouble sleeping without the ever present noise of rowdy prisoners and iron doors slamming shut, so it's best she get started now. "Night, Mom," Thea whispers. Oliver echoes his sister's sentiment.

Moira looks at both her children, the love shining in her eyes. "Good night, my lovelies," she whispers before sliding out of the room with her distinctive grace and poise. For the first time since returning from the lair, his smile reaches his eyes because he's certain that no amount of time in prison could have taken her elegance away from her.

Their mother is barely five feet out of the room before Thea turns to him and begins her interrogation. "What happened at QC?"

"I don't want to talk about it," he replies. He doesn't want to even think about it. "I almost lost a friend tonight and that crazy Vertigo terrorist is dead." She opens her mouth to speak but he cuts her off. "That's all I'm going to say. For now."

There are no excuses or believable fables to spread about what happened in the executive suite at Queen Consolidated. He doesn't know how to begin to explain to the police how Count Vertigo ended up being killed by The Arrow and falling from the window of Oliver Queen's office. He should be turning it all over in his head trying to work out all the kinks, instead of strolling through a mine-field of what-ifs.

"Think I'm gonna go for a run," he hears himself say, sounding like a robot even to his own ears.

"It's nearly midnight," Thea points out.

"It's quiet," he counters. "I need to think."

"Are you okay?" she wonders, placing a hand on his injured bicep. He manages not to jerk this time, lest he increase the expression of worry on his sister's face.

"I'm fine," he reassures. He's not fine. He's not even close to fine. He and 'fine' are living in different dimensions right now. "Why don't you sleep in your own bed tonight?" he suggests. "Rest up for your day of luxury with Mom tomorrow."

"I might just do that," she replies, crossing her arms at her chest and swaying slightly from side to side. Already, she's making a plan of attack for Girls' Day Out.

Successfully shifting her attention elsewhere, Oliver quits the room and performs a quick change into running gear before heading out to the grounds. He doesn't bother to stretch like he should; his growing anxiety tempts him to skip the basics and this time he listens. In minutes his feet are crunching against the fine gravel of the jogging trail on the Queen estate, but no matter how fast he runs, he can't get the relief he needs. Oliver's fingers tingle as though recalling something left untouched and his lips burn with the heat of cravings unfulfilled. He gives up the run and heads back to the house once accepting that no amount of sprinting is going to silence the clamoring ache inside.

Neither does the long hot shower – even after it grows cold and his fingers and toes become shriveled. He barely notices.

As suspected, sleep eludes him like a flirtatious strumpet; tugging at his eyes and then dancing away when the night's events replay themselves on the back of their lids. He tosses and turns for an interminable time, at one point curling into a fetal position, but nothing even slows the freight train of tender need that gradually swamps him.

He doesn't know what makes him snap, but when the break comes there's no stopping what's destined to spill out.

He throws off the sheets and dons his street clothes with a speed he's only accustomed to using when dressing as his alter ego. The house is secure for the night; the lights off and doors bolted. But none of these obstacles could ever keep him from something he really needs, so it isn't long before his motorcycle is racing up the long driveway and away from the Queen mansion.

When Felicity imagined climbing under her warm goose down covers, she anticipated that sleep would come easily – the sheer exhaustion aiding in that process. But she hadn't counted on the adrenaline. No matter where she turns, what position she takes, the trace amounts of adrenaline swimming in her eventually blood catches up with her. Each time she drifts, she's yanked back to awareness by the involuntary and erratic twitching of muscles controlled by random electrical impulses.

It's a biological response, she knows. But it's a bitch of one, especially when all she wants is to _forget_ about how the Count had his hands on her or how badly she needed Oliver to kiss her tonight. Like a drug you know you need, but have never had the courage to take. She had felt the pull deep in her gut when he held her hand in his, but as usual Felicity watched him walk away, chalking the butterflies in her stomach up to the shock of the night's events.

She contemplates opening the bottle of wine in the rack on the kitchen counter, but dismisses the idea, knowing that wine will not ease the hunger this time. Only something stronger could take the rather honed edge off. Like a frightened little girl, she turns on her bedside lamp, hoping to find some comfort by banishing the darkness.

She can still feel his fingers fondling her hair – recall his heated breath against her ear as he teased her with all manner of vile things he planned to do to her.

Taking a deep, shaky breath Felicity tries again, rolling to her left side and pulling a pillow close to her chest. Seconds later, another chill wracks Felicity's body; rapidly followed by more involuntary muscle twitches in her lower back and right leg. Her throat constricts and her eyes fill with tears again. She thought she had cried herself out in the shower, but if there's one thing you can count on when it comes to post-traumatic stress; it's that you can't ever be sure it's really over. Tears spill quietly down her cheeks and onto the pillow, but Felicity doesn't bother wiping them away. She tugs the pillow tighter to her, pressing it against her body and tucking her face into its soft depths.

When the new bout of tears subsides, she hears a sound coming from the living room, and lifts her head, her heart set to racing. The sound comes again, a soft knock at the door and she's out of the bed faster than she can tell her body to move. Because she knows; she feels who is on the other side of the door deep within her reptilian brain stem. She's so confident that she opens the door without checking the peephole.

Standing in the hallway, his motorcycle helmet in one hand, he can hear the sound of her bare feet padding to the door and her fingers removing the chain lock without hesitation. When the door opens before him, he tilts his head to side, shaking it slightly. "I could have been anyone," he scolds gently.

Her eyes meet his, and she sees the disquiet there; soulful and profound, it's a side he allows few people to see. She is happy to be one of them. She wonders how he can possibly doubt the existence and condition of his soul, when it's so tangible to her. Felicity steps aside, pulling the door with her, and bids him enter. "But you aren't just anyone," she replies.

Exposed again, Felicity has revealed too much, but she doesn't care because he's looking at her with those eyes that crack her insides into a million fluttering moths.

Oliver sets his helmet on the hall credenza, unsnaps the closures on his brown suede jacket and begins to remove it when he stops, frozen, taking in her appearance as she closes the door behind them. Relinking the chain lock, his IT girl stands with her back to him, her frizzy air-dried hair tumbling around her with a surprising amount of curl. Oblivious to his interest, she wears nothing but an oversized MIT sweatshirt, and presumably, a pair of panties he can't see. He is utterly charmed and aroused at the same time. His heart rate spikes and the heat that has been simmering in the lowest part of his gut, flares to life like an ember stoked to instant flame. His fingers throb with the need to touch her.

Looking at her and feeling these emotions he's tried so hard to deny – to bury – he's flooded with terror at the thought of all that could have been lost to the Count's revenge plot. He can barely breathe beneath all the weight of it.

When she turns around, Felicity is unprepared for the sensation of his palms cupping her cheeks and when he rests his forehead against hers, something inside of her breaks. His breath is ragged, warming her face, and she's certain that his shoulders are shaking. She grips his forearms to help steady him. Oliver's hands slip past her cheeks, under her ears, to slide into her hair and cradle the base of her skull. She's exceptionally sensitive there from scratching at the curling tendrils of crazy left behind by the Count. The rickety beaver-dam holding back a river of hoarded emotion collapses under the force of this unprecedented show of affection.

Felicity's eyes drift close as a delicious warmth spreads beneath his touch. Her scalp beneath his fingers had just been ice cold only moments ago, but now the heat there spreads like wildfire, cleansing her more than a hundred hot showers could do. His thumbs brushing against her ears, sends shivers of arousal racing down her spine and to the more receptive areas of her body.

"I just…." he whispers, his voice pleading for something he doesn't know how to express.

Her breath catches in her throat and her head lulls back, allowing him to cradle her in his hands, and trusting him to do so. She opens her eyes to meet his again, finding him searching her gaze for something he can't bear to request, a permission of some kind, or maybe a…forgiveness.

She sees it then – his need. Like lightening illuminates a dark night with its white hot flash, Felicity sees all of it laid bare for the first time. She understands now that she is his greatest weakness, his Achilles Heel; she finally understands now that his need is for _her._ He's shaking, his mind attempting to fight off the commitments that his heart and body have already made.

"I _know_ ," she nods, her voice matching the ragged breathiness of his. Catching her lower lip between her teeth, Felicity valiantly endeavors to keep the rising maelstrom inside of her safely contained. All that accomplishes is to draw a heavy shudder from his body, and suddenly the pad of his thumb is caressing her lower lip to soothe the damage her teeth have done. Fighting tears, she swallows convulsively to clear the lump of emotion strangling her throat.

Then his mouth is hovering over hers and she's quite certain that her heart has stopped beating as she waits, eternally, on the edge of a new precipice. They hang there together, on the verge of change, breathing each other's air and waiting for lightening to strike them down. She grips his forearms tighter and plants her feet, every instinct in her body screaming at her to lift up into his kiss.

But she can't. She won't. The two brain cells still knocking around in her brain entreat her to use reason. She wants desperately – so frantically – for this to mean something to him. To not be just another in his string of meaningless women who come in and out of his life like he's had a revolving door installed. Felicity wants to be more than that; maybe too much, she thinks. Perhaps by standing here in her kitchen, with the magnificent Oliver Queen's lips just centimeters away from hers, maybe she's overreached. But if she angles her neck back another fraction of an inch and lifts onto the balls of her feet ever so slightly…she will never know for sure.

"Just one." He promises himself restraint before dropping his lips into hers. It's just a brush of lips at first, like a feather teasing the softest skin; perhaps he's waiting for her to push him away and demand that he leave.

As if she ever would.

He had just wanted this – the first kiss he had denied them after rescuing her from the Count. When she fretted over his wound and he told her it was nothing, he wanted only to kiss her then, if for no other reason than to erase that unbearable look of fear from her face. For a heartbeat, his lips had reached for her but he had locked it down, choosing instead to walk away and put some small distance between them. To his unending disbelief, his heart and mind had regretted that action from the moment he took it, driving him crazy with burning need. So, when he came to her door, this kiss had been all he was after.

Until their lips touched.

Felicity' skin is silk beneath his fingers, the shell of her ear a fascination for him. But once he brushes his lips against hers, his negative charge meets her positive and he finds he can't pry himself away from her. Oliver's only option is to deepen the kiss, hoping that by delving deeper he may find his way out – but not really certain he wants an escape. The hand cupping the base of her skull fists in her hair, holding her in place as he presses for more intimate entry.

Oliver's hands gripping her hair, so completely different from the Count's cruel grasp, dissolves her nerves into a mess of randomly misfiring mechanoreceptors, causing every inch of her flesh to become a single live wire. Inevitably, her mouth opens against Oliver's and he boldly slips his tongue inside.

One touch of her tongue, one taste of her, and he is irretrievably lost. His fight, though waged with all of his considerable might, is surrendered to the inexorable pull of his hunger. Their lips fuse together, their tongues meeting and mating, neither truly seeking dominance nor giving quarter but offering only pleasure instead. Felicity loses the feeling in her legs, but when her knees buckle, he's right there with an arm around her waist, becoming the vise that threatens to never let her go. She will happily remain his prisoner for as long as he will keep her.

Her hands worm into his jacket, burrowing for warmth, to find she is separated from his skin by only the thin layer of a plain white tee. Gliding her hands up over his shoulders, she strips him of his jacket, only pulling his hands away from her for a second. The heavy leather of his biking jacket hits the floor with a thud.

"Felicity." He wrenches his lips away from hers with a groan. Just to say her name, to say it out loud so he can hear it in the air around them. She smiles giddily, and then reaches her hand up to pull him back down to her lips. Seizing his lower lip between her teeth, she strokes it with her tongue before releasing it and looking up at him, the dreamy smile still plastered across her face.

When his lips and teeth make their way along her jawline to find her earlobe, her skin is set aflame. Oliver's hands slide down her back to cup her rear end and press her body snugly against his – and suddenly, his need isn't just something she can see in his eyes. Her hands travel from his shoulders, down his chest, all the way to the waistband of his jeans. She winds her fingers into the belt loops and pulls him even tighter against her, letting his heat seep into her.

Lifting her eyes to his, Felicity suggestively grinds her pubic bone against his ever more noticeable erection. She knows she's stepping on the third rail by provoking his action. She's fully aware of the possibility that what starts here tonight could all go horribly awry. But she also knows that the strongest passions abate, cooler heads eventually prevail and a rare opportunity, once lost, is often gone forever.

Oliver's passions are far from abatement if the anticipation building in his gut and rising in his pants is any indication. Arousal ignites like sparks in his blood, taking his breath away, but it's the invitation in her eyes that threatens to set loose the raging beast he is rigorously controlling. Swooping down to capture her lips with his, Oliver is no longer begging for forgiveness, let alone asking for permission. Her lips are pink and swollen from his attentions, and his are more sensitive than they've ever been.

Ravaging her mouth, Oliver takes from her what little faculty for thought remains, leaving her blissfully reeling and dizzy. At first, she thinks she's falling – fainting maybe – until she realizes her feet have left ground and he's hoisting her against the solid wall of his chest. Purely on instinct, her legs wrap around his waist and she motions with one hand in the direction of the hallway. Felicity tears her lips from his long enough to breathlessly demand, "Bed."

His unerring sense of direction locates the bedroom without so much as a glance at their surroundings; he sees nothing but her. He sets her on the bed on her knees and she's pulling off his tee-shirt without further preamble, while he toes off his shoes. Her fingers trace the scar on under his collar bone where he was shot last year – the night she found out about his alter ego – before leaning forward to kiss the still-pink puckered flesh. Oliver draws a sharp breath; his skin smoldering wherever her lips touch.

She explores with her fingers, her lips, even her tongue when she feels so inclined, and he gives her the lead, happy for the moment just to have her safely within his sights. As she inventories the scars and marks on his chest and abdomen that have become so dear to her, he rakes his fingers through her hair, gathering up portions of the silky blonde tresses; a small indulgence of his own fantasy fulfillment.

She smells like honeysuckle-in-bloom, like sunshine really, and he wants to bury himself in her brightness and pray she has enough for the both of them.

He's already rock hard, so when she unbuttons his jeans, he has to pull her hands away, grabbing her by the wrists and holding them above her head. He chuckles in response to her adorable and unexpected pout. He has a Christmas list of things he wants to do with her and that package shouldn't be opened until later – if he can avoid it. Oliver draws her pouting mouth back to his and climbs onto the bed with her. Their kisses are hot, open-mouthed and thoroughly unrestrained; Felicity thrills to discover he's as affected by them as she is.

When her fingers trace gently over the gauze bandage on his bicep, his flinch is well-schooled, but not so veiled that she doesn't notice.

"You're in pain," she says. Her eyes grow wet, as though she'd forgotten that one of the Count's bullets had tasted his flesh this evening.

"Not enough," he answers with a shake of his head. He kisses her again; he would do anything to erase the sadness in her eyes. "Not enough to stop this."

It's hard to tell if she draws him down onto the bed with her, or if he masterfully leads her in that direction, but eventually, she ends up beneath him, his kisses insistent and her hands meandering around the muscular peaks and valleys of his broad upper back. His hips fit like the perfect complement in the cradle of her thighs, and she's powerless to stop herself from nudging coyly against him. Oliver finds the hem of her sweatshirt and tucks his hand underneath, sliding his palm just under her ribcage. She's so supple and pliant, the raging beast within strains at the leash to tear brazenly into her; something he cannot allow.

Her hands are everywhere and Felicity finds herself wishing (not for the first time in her life) that she had another set at her disposal. Every part of her is on fire, from the tips of her toes to her scalp, and every place in between. Her breasts ache to be touched, held, tasted, and the warm throbbing place between her legs, one way or another, will not be ignored. Back arching into the heat of his palm against her skin, her hips rock into his with languid undulations. She winds a leg around one his to gain some leverage and his hips respond by bucking into her. Groaning into her mouth, Oliver pulls away from the kiss as his control begins to fragment.

She's moving against him, her body beseeching while her mouth is oddly silent. She needs him to remove her clothing, to feel her skin against his, but doesn't want to ask him to do it. She shouldn't have to. Drawing back to sit on his haunches, he clutches two handfuls of her college sweatshirt and pulls her into a sitting position before dragging the garment up over her head. Felicity assists by gamely lifting her arms.

Once free of the garment she drops back to her previous position, lounging before him, completely naked but for a pair of white cotton panties. Felicity watches as his eyes glass over when faced with the flawless canvas of exquisite flesh on display. Oliver splays a hand atop her belly, examining the contrast between his rough-hewn fingers and the alabaster glow of her perfect skin. He is unworthy of her in a thousand different ways, but, God help him, he isn't strong enough to stay away anymore.

Frenzied butterflies stir in the pit of her stomach and send a jolt of erotic voltage up her spine, causing her teeth to chatter. Apprehension at being laid bare to him produces an involuntary blush. Still, she refuses to avert her eyes because in her fantasies she's confident about her body and only virgins look away. Old habits dying hard, she nervously bites down on the nail of her forefinger, worrying it between her teeth.

The pink blush spreads across her skin as Oliver watches, and his seething need coils tighter in the pit of his stomach; a hungry cobra, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Unable to recall the last time he saw a naked woman blush, Oliver is overwhelmed by the need to taste that heated flesh. Her breasts, her belly, and her thighs are all a vision of perfection; the kind of perfection that leads a man to wonder where to begin.

Grabbing the crook behind each knee, Oliver drags Felicity towards him and drapes her legs over his hips. Leaning forward, his hands slide under her shoulder blades until her head is cradled in his hands, and dives into the column of her neck, preparing to leave his mark there. A scrape of his stubble against her skin draws a pained hiss from Felicity and he snaps back, for the first time noticing the irritation around her neck and collar area.

"What happened?" he demands, his voice thick with concern.

"He touched me there," she answers truthfully, a conspicuous tremor in her voice. "I couldn't make the feel of his hands go away." She offers him the glimmer of a brave smile, and places her hand on his cheek to reassure him. "Who needs skin anyway?"

"I hate that he had his hands on you," Oliver confesses, reaching up to caress her neck with his fingers. "When I saw him touch you…like that…I wanted to make him suffer. Spend hours making him suffer." The pads of his fingers find the most inflamed parts, and stroke her with such tenderness it brings tears to her eyes. He turns her head to one side so he can better see the delicate tissue before leaning in. This time, when he kisses her neck, it's with lightest brush of a whisper against her raw skin. Except with each kiss, he's soothing the hurt and driving away all memory of the Count's touch. She sighs with relief as the feel of crawling skin drains away under his care, to be replaced with the sensation of molten lava in her veins.

"I had to make an example of him, Felicity," Oliver whispers into her neck, kissing the corded tendon there. "I need them all to know that you're off limits." Completing his task, he pulls away and looks into her eyes; the soulful blue of moments ago shifting to hard, cold steel. "I don't want to kill," he promises. "For you, for Tommy; I don't want to be that man anymore. But I need them to know that if they lay a finger on you, they're signing their own death warrant."

Felicity catches the flash of need that passes over his eyes. She didn't want him to take that fatal step with the Count, not then, but only because she didn't believe her own life worth the damage to his soul. But now she knows different. His pupils dilate further and she sees into the secret of his soul, so deep into the truth of it. If something happened to her, the damage to his spirit would be worth a hundred righteous kills – a thousand.

He came within a hairsbreadth of losing her today and in that heartbeat, he had a chance to see what the world would be like without her in it. And that's when he realized, he couldn't remember anything good happening before she came into his life – certainly not when he was on the island, but prior to that as well. Before he met her, his life had been a series of days spent trying to fill his emptiness with girls, booze, and any other mind-numbing pursuits he could conjure. Not until that heartbeat of a moment did he realize that the woman in his arms had found a way to fill emptiness that had always plagued him. As if the emptiness within were merely a lock, and she its matching key.

Oliver's head drops to her chest, finding the target he seeks – the precious beating heart beneath his ear. He listens intently, sweetly, to the sound of the rapid lub-dub as he strokes one hand up the outside of her thigh, up her ribcage until, eventually, cupping one perfect breast. He's rewarded with a heart palpitation and a sharp intake of breath; a slow smile spreads across his face. Oliver's thumb circles her nipple and she clutches at his hair.

"Oliver," she whimpers softly, his name slipping unguarded out of her mouth.

"Felicity," he breathes in response. He's happy to say the name over and over. It occurs to him then, for the first time, that felicity means happiness. He wonders if it's some sort of cosmic joke, but prays that it's a divine gift instead. He hopes he's owed that much after everything he's been through. He knows the odds are not in his favor, but maybe she is meant to be his salvation; as if her presence in his life was all part of some grand endgame.

Felicity had thought when he carried her to the room that this was going to escalate quickly. Her body, having been so long in a dry spell, was quickly primed and ready. But Oliver has other plans, it seems, and he wants to take it slow. He toys with her nipple a while longer, the tips of his fingers tracing the edge of her areola until the rosy pink skin puckers with electric arousal. When he tweaks the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, he might as well strum a harp string tied directly to the yearning throb at her core. But it's when he lifts his head and circles the tip of his tongue around her nipple that she is flooded with wet arousal. When he takes the nipple into his mouth and draws deeply on it, as if it were a fine cigar, she nearly comes right then and there.

The wet spot on her panties grows larger and Oliver knows her body must be screaming to be touched there, but he's nowhere near ready for that. With a languid grin, he brushes the knuckles of one hand over the material, light enough only to tease. Electrified, Felicity gasps and lifts her hips in search of more relief from the throbbing want, but his hand moves away. Oliver returns to her breasts to lavish attention upon them, strumming at one nipple while alternately pleasuring the other with tongue, lips, and teeth. Her fingertips grip at his back and neck; her legs wrapped around his waist as she tilts her pelvis to greet his, rubbing against his denim covered erection.

A fine sheen of perspiration breaks out on her forehead and upper chest. Her temperature rises exponentially with each second he spends worshipping her breasts and she's quickly ramping up to a state of frantic release. Her fingers clutch mindlessly at his hair, and he welcomes the erotic pain of it as he rains open-mouthed kisses down upon the tender flesh between her breasts. Her rapid heartbeat, her thighs tightening around his waist combined with a sudden falter in her breathing – he senses her climax just before it hits. Oliver curls his body over hers, encompassing her like the hard shell around a soft, delicious piece of candy and guides her through the tremors, swallowing her stuttering exhalations with his mouth.

Her orgasm is a mild one, but the first she's ever had with only breast manipulation. She knew some girls who were that sensitive, she just didn't know she was one of them. But then again, no one had ever spent that much time paying homage to her breasts before. Felicity never thought of herself as anything special in breast department, but Oliver seems to adore them like idols that require tribute.

She recovers quickly and when she opens her eyes, she finds him gazing down at her, his unshielded emotions revealed for her to see. Without words, his eyes speak of his love for her. He is _in_ love with her, and she has no idea how that happened. Felicity doesn't have a single clue what she did or said to get under his skin and into his heart. The concept is so hard to believe it shakes her to the core. She doesn't feel the tear that slips down her temple until he's wiping it away with his thumb.

Oliver is alarmed by the way his own body reacts to the sight of her tears; a lump rises in his throat, something in his chest constricts and his eyes sting with acid wetness. Mortified, he drops his head to her chest, hiding there as her hands soothe him with feather light caresses on his back and shoulders. Breathing in shallow gulps of air, he obstinately combats the onslaught of emotion, made all the more potent by her loving hands. He is emotionally raw from the night's events; the breathless panic, the coldblooded terror and the feverish need all riding so close to surface now, shredding him like a razor blade on inflamed skin.

He knows there's only one way to subdue the panic and terror born of the things he feels for Felicity that he isn't ready to voice. He must loosen the chain on the need he's been restraining since his lips first met hers. Sitting up on his knees, he reaches for the waistband of her panties, gathering the material into a bunch and tugging at them. She gratefully unwinds her legs from around his hips to speed their removal. Gone are the last dregs of her nervousness with him; she is ready to feel him on her and in her, and all around her at the same time.

Felicity sits up, her fingers reaching for his zipper. But that isn't part of his plan just yet and, again he brushes her fingers away and presses her back into the mattress. Confused, she wonders what he has in store for her next.

Before she has a chance to steel herself against what coming next, he's arranging her legs over his broad shoulders and wasting no time with teasing or preliminaries. His tongue dives into the slit of her wet folds, accurately locating the bundle of nerves like one of his arrows finds a bouncing tennis ball. Devastating streaks of pleasure bombard all corners of her body. Felicity's reaction is so unschooled and so intense Oliver is forced to hold her down, his firm hand splayed across her belly to keep her anchored to the mattress as his tongue toys with her clit. Biting down hard on her lower lip, she manages to hold in the moans that promise to burst forth with each flick of divine torture he bestows upon her.

Liquid heat builds in the pit of her stomach, burning her from the inside out while her hands clutch blindly for anything to ground her lest she fly apart. She comes within a whisker of knocking over the bedside lamp. Higher and higher he steers her, the whimpers from deep within her throat sounding further and further away as she's swamped by the hum of blood rushing in her ears.

"Oliver!" she cries, arching her back. "Oh God…."

She tastes like salted caramel to him and he's addicted from the start. So close now, Oliver debates how best to push her over the edge and thinks that all he must do is pluck just the right harp string to send her tumbling headfirst into oblivion. Felicity writhes beneath his mouth and Oliver loves watching her submit to his control so pliantly and without question. Part of him rejoices at the possibilities.

Teasing the slick folds of her entrance with one finger, Oliver torments her with the idea of completeness. She is receptive and wantonly responsive, unconsciously spreading her thighs further even as he slides a second finger inside of her. Oliver's thick fingers, calloused from years of retracting a bowstring, press into her over and over while he swirls his tongue around the swollen bed of nerves nestled at the apex of her sex. Her abdominal muscles grow taut beneath the splayed hand holding her down, her stomach rippling with mounting energy that swiftly approaches imminent overload.

Her hand grips and clutches convulsively at anything within reach, digging into the fluffy goose down of her comforter and hoping to find some foothold to the moment. But she is already too far gone.

"Come for me," he urges, lifting his head to watch her. Her body glows with perspiration generated by the effort of holding in so much energy. Felicity gasps in shallow breaths, her legs on his shoulders quivering as she arches her back. She reaches for her release, but despite the abundance of sensory input, finds it just out of range. Still pumping his fingers inside of her, Oliver places his lips around her swollen clitoris and takes a fleeting but powerful draw on it; and then a second.

Felicity tumbles over the edge then, every muscle in her body detonating their energy stores. Her heels dig into his back and her hips lift from the bed. He slips one hand under her rear end, holding her up to his mouth as he continues to suck on her clit. At the peak of her climax, Felicity's mind grays out, growing blissfully vacant while the pleasure center of her brain seizes control. Her lungs fight for air as all of the major muscle groups twitch intermittently, ecstasy sweeping through her like a hot breeze on a cold winter night.

With a contented smile on his face, Oliver watches as his lovely Felicity ascends to a place of insensible euphoria. He kisses his way back up her body, started with the subtle jut of her hip bone, followed by circling his tongue around her belly button, and then pausing momentarily at each breast before finally capturing her lips to taste the last of her moans.

The heavy, persistent ache of his cock alerts him that he's put off his own gratification long enough. Providing Felicity with hers – twice – goes a long way towards assuaging the guilt he feels about giving in to this tenacious hunger he's carried for a long time now. He's not sure where and when it began, can't pinpoint the exact moment, but it might have been that very first day when she called him on his bullshit about the bullet-riddled laptop. Oliver remembers with perfect clarity how Felicity had tilted her head and pursed her lips tightly together, her expression not unlike that of his long-suffering fourth-grade teacher, who had seen more than her fair share of his schoolboy antics. He'd been desperately in love with Ms. McCormack.

When Felicity recovers enough to appreciate her surroundings, Oliver has already climbed off the bed and is resolutely peeling off the remainder of his clothes. She makes no apologies for rolling onto her side and propping herself up onto her elbow to watch enthusiastically. She's always felt somewhat ashamed while watching his workouts in the Foundry, hoping he wouldn't notice her furtive glances and occasionally blatant stares when she forgot to look away. But now, she's fairly sure, she has permission.

He catches her watching as he finishes stripping off his gray boxer briefs and tossing them on the pile of clothes with his jeans and his socks. His erection stands at the ready, thick and hard against his belly, but he's unexpectedly self-conscious about some of his scars, especially the ones she's never seen. Helena had pitied him and Laurel had outright ignored them after a cursory viewing, as though determined to deny the reasons for their existence. With Isabel, he'd removed only the necessary garments to finish the deed.

But with Felicity, it is different – making him all the more vulnerable. She knows both sides of him; but more importantly she has no basis of comparison like Laurel and McKenna. Felicity knows only the Oliver standing before her now, meaning there is no retreat from her and no place to hide. If things get tricky with her, he can't slip into the persona of Oliver Queen, Billionaire Playboy, because with her that dog don't hunt.

She's surprised by the scars she didn't know about; what looks like a knife wound high in his upper thigh near his groin, and before he turned toward her, she caught sight of a jagged tear across his left buttock. Felicity knows each scar carries a story of enormous import, but none of those tales will change what he is to her or how she feels about him. It's his greatest fear, she knows – that the sum of all his stories, the weight of them, will eventually turn him into something dark and evil.

It seems incomprehensible to Oliver that those less damaged have allowed themselves to sink into the inescapable pit of crime and corruption while he has fought tooth and nail to hang onto his humanity. And that a rare few, like the Count, do it for the sadism of it all.

Felicity's eyes lock onto his with heat-seeking accuracy, and she holds out her hand in a deliberate and limitless invitation. He stands still before her like a statue, chiseled stone waiting for the summons that will bring him to life and when she offers it, he does not wait to be asked twice. She shifts to her knees, holding out her arms and he steps into her ready embrace. Felicity opens her mouth to speak, but he cuts her off with a kiss of savage possession. In a moment, she will be his, completely – and he needs her to know and understand what she's getting into.

Felicity mounts no resistance to the ferocity of his kiss, instead welcoming his tongue into the warm cavern of her mouth and meeting it with hers in equal measure. His gut clenches with anticipation as they drink from each other with passionate gusto. Oliver tugs her body against his, trapping his cock between them and Felicity's hand travel down his chest to his waist, then around his back to hold him against her.

She moans into his open mouth with the feel of the thick column of hard flesh wedged between them. He is so well-endowed she would almost laugh at the ridiculous inequity of blessings bestowed upon Oliver Queen, if she weren't currently the beneficiary of many of them. Or if the blessings most essential to her hadn't been so hard earned in a five year crucible of fire. Even now, the gifts with which he was born are the least important to her.

Felicity's hand locates his erection and takes hold of it; fevered with lust, the shaft is too large for her petite hand to fully encompass. He is hard like steel and soft like satin at the same time; hot to the touch, the head is moist with beads of pre-ejaculate. She tears her mouth away from his and gazes down at the cock in her eager but unaccustomed hand. His fingers rake through her hair, while she becomes occupied with new business.

She swipes a thumb over the viscous beads of lubricant at the tip of his cock, and rejoices in the sound of Oliver's breath catching in his chest. Looking up at him she finds his eyes closed, and feels his hands fisting convulsively in her hair. It's Felicity's turn to smile contentedly as she begins gently pumping his cock with her fist. She pumps him a few times, while alternately swiping her thumb over the tip of his penis, before leaning forward and sucking his nipple in between her lips. She bites at him, tugging the tiny bud between her teeth before soothing him with a swirl of her tongue.

"Felicity!" he rumbles, voice laced with the sound of shock and awe.

"Is this okay?" she asks, switching over to other nipple as a luscious and knowing grin spreads across her face.

"God, yes!" he groans, but then extricates her from his chest. When did his IT girl become such a temptress?

"But—"she protests.

I need…you," he growls. He grabs the backs of her thighs lifts her up, and with that, Oliver has her on her back, climbing between her thighs, his ready cock seeking the warmth of sex. Felicity seizes his shaft and guides his tip to her impatient entrance, while he situates himself above her, locking his elbows in place. He enters her with excruciating tenderness, ignoring the screams of the beast within clamoring for satisfaction. His jaw clenches rigidly as he clamps the reins down on the uncompromising urgency of his hunger. He refuses to allow the frenzy to touch her, but she's so hot and tight he can barely keep a hold of it.

"Felicity," he pleads, praying that she can see the remorse in his eyes. Oliver knows his characteristic control will not see him through this and he fears Felicity will pay the price. If that happens, she may never forgive him.

At first, her body tenses against his invasion. He is larger than previous lovers and, sadly, it's been a considerably long time between sexual encounters. Even though he presses into her a little bit at a time, it hurts and her instinct is to fight off the discomfort. But ultimately the intimacy created by this moment holds more significance to Felicity than the cost in pain she may have to pay. When he cries her name, the emotion in his eyes is like a drowning man begging for a lifeline and as always, she summons the courage to throw it to him.

Felicity clutches at the granite muscles of his rear end; his every muscle within range of her hands quivering under the strain of his control. She sees what he's doing, holding himself back from her, and she wants none of his self-hating bullshit. Digging her heels into the mattress, she bucks her hips upward and pulls his pelvis toward her at the same time, until his cock is seated deeply within her. Their gasps ring out in unison. Oliver, shocked by the sudden sensation of being utterly enveloped in her wet heat, stills above her like a statue made of sweating marble. Her passage is extraordinarily tight, as though she were a part of him struck from his flesh long before he entered the world.

Felicity is no virgin, but neither is she a woman of vast experience. She's never had a relationship that lasted more than three months; mostly because the average men find her intelligence intimidating and she can only hide her smarts for so long before frustration levels reach critical mass. And the truth is, the kind of men that are usually interested in her geeky brand of beauty, aren't usually men at all, but rather boys who eventually lose interest when the newest video game hits the market. So, for the last three years, she had to put her sexual pleasure squarely into her own hands. Which is why Oliver's penetration, as amazing and as mindboggling as it is, brings with it the rather agonizing sensation of being invasively filled.

Her eyes sting with tears that don't go unnoticed by Oliver. Guilt-ridden, he moves to pull out but finds her legs clamping down around his waist. "Don't!" she protests through clenched teeth, panic leaping to life in her eyes. "Don't you dare!" Sliding her hands to his shoulder blades for leverage, she lifts up to capture his lips with hers, kissing him in tender petition. "Please," she implores. "I just need a moment, okay? Can you give me a moment?"

Amazed by her strength, Oliver nods in agreement and digs deep to find the will to remain perfectly motionless inside of her. He can't speak, can't think, can barely breathe because if he does, his control will shatter like glass. He loves her – he knows – will do anything for her. Anything except say it out loud. Afraid that putting voice to such emotions is to call down the lightening, to tempt Fate in the most brazen of ways and he will not risk losing her to such folly.

She tries not to touch or caress him while she adjusts to sensation of being joined, but every strained muscle is something worth lusting over and so she's forced to employ a little control of her own. It hits her like a ton of bricks then. He is inside of her and for a moment she forgot to be aroused by the very idea of it. How many fantasies, she wonders, has she had about this moment? Too many to count. Felicity wills her body to relax around him, and is pleasantly surprised when it complies.

And now she can feel him there, every inch of his cock stimulating every nerve ending around it. The truth of it floods her with liquid heat, her lower belly clenching with arousal. "Now," she tells him, breathlessly.

He studies her expression, searching for the slightest sign of prevarication, but finds only eagerness and passion. Oliver tests her by pulling out halfway and sliding back in.

This isn't the Oliver Queen she imagined in her prolific fantasy life, apart from the naked artistry of him and the fact that he is hung like a porn star. This is the Oliver Queen that treats her like crystal and is more comfortable believing that she can't see right through him. The way she can see right through him now – see the demon he's struggling to keep inside.

She lifts her legs higher on his flanks and changes the angle of her hips. His eyes slam shut when blitzed with a wave of new sensation.

"More," she demands. Felicity's fingers roam up and down his sides and around his shoulder blades, but it's when she skims the back of his neck that his back arches reflexively, pressing him deeper into her. Her lips squeeze shut and a surprised whimper escapes from the resulting pleasure.

"I don't want to—" he protests between clenched teeth.

"More," she cuts him off, squeezing his flanks with her knees. His apparent reluctance to fuck her causes a frustrated scream to gather in the back of her throat. Detachment during sex is, most assuredly, _not_ one of her fantasies and so she knows was going to have to break him. Lucky for her, she can see that his cracks are already revealing themselves and she knows what it would take for him to splinter. She just wishes she didn't have to goad him.

"You're naked…hard…and balls deep inside of me," she informs him.

"I've noticed," he grates, the muscles in his jaw ticking rhythmically with stress.

Cupping his face with both hands she asks, "Then why are you still hiding from me, like I don't know who you are? Like I can't see what's going on inside of you."

"You can't see that," he insists. His eyes beg her to turn away from the darkest parts of him and see only the broken shards that he chooses to show.

"Clear as day," she declares, her thumbs caressing the stubble on his cheeks. "You can't destroy a demon by holding it inside of you, Oliver. You have to let it out."

"I can't," he snarls, shaking his head to dislodge her hands. "Not with you. I could hurt you," he frets. "I _will_ hurt you."

"Maybe," she whispers. "But you can't scare me away, Oliver."

Her lips lift with an introspective smile and her eyes speak the promise. "I don't break easy. And I'll give as good as I get." To prove her words, she cups her breasts with her hands and clamps her inner muscles brutally around the rigid stone of his cock. Felicity pinches her nipples and twists the little nubs of sensitive flesh, still wet from his worshipping mouth.

Unable to remain stationary a second longer, Oliver retreats from the heat of her passage before pushing back in. If only he could just find his equilibrium and stabilize, he could get ahead of this, but the tiny amount of friction feels so good he wants to wail with the satisfaction of it.

But Oliver's damnable self-regulated contact isn't enough for her – not by a long shot. He is the most stubborn man on the planet, she laments, knowing she will have to compel him to take action, and hating herself a little bit for what she's about to do.

"Do you want to know what he said he was going to do to me after he killed you?" she inquires. His hardened mask of restraint slips, confirming she's on the right track. "After he lured you close and shot you, he was going to have a little 'fun' with me. I don't need to explain…what he meant by fun…do I?"

A fresh wave of possessive fury rolls through him, loosening his grip on the demon. "No," he growls, shaking his head. Concentrating on the burning pain of the bullet graze on his arm, Oliver uses the enflamed throbbing as a focal point to maintain his control.

"Maybe I should," she suggests. "Since the Count didn't spare _me_ the details. I tried to tell him we weren't lovers but that just made him laugh that awful laugh."

"Shut up," Oliver orders. His hips withdraw and buck into her hard and he can practically hear the sound of rattling chains in his ears.

Felicity bites down on her lower lip to gain control of her own responses. She can't lose control until he loses control, having not yet met her objective. "He liked the thought of having me first," she tormented.

"Shut up!" He tenses his muscles and holds his breath in a failed attempt to remain stationary inside of her, but instinct is an unstoppable force and he's slamming into her with devastating vigor. He wants so badly to pull out of her entirely, to put an end to this torture, but finds that the limits of his discipline have been far overrun.

"He was trying to figure out how to shoot you, but leave you alive long enough so he could make you watch." Bile rises in the back of her throat and she can taste the blackness of her words and feel the disturbing weight of the Count's hands on her again. She tries to concentrate on the buzz of Oliver's hot skin against hers and the marvel of being so completely filled by him.

"Please," he begs. Oliver's hands fist in the material of the sheets beside her, his knuckles turning an alarming shade of white. "Please stop. I can't—"

Felicity compresses her lips together briefly to suppress their trembling. Her memories of the evening hit her like a ton of bricks. It's a demon they _both_ need to exorcise. Felicity's voice quakes and salty tears track down her cheeks when she continues. "He was going to zip-tie my hands behind my back so I couldn't fight him and then bend me over the conference table. Lift my dress—"

Rage.

Pure, unadulterated rage tunnels his vision down to scarlet and black and the miniscule amount of his remaining control is shredded when confronted with the pictures drawn by her words. A roar of fury erupts from the deepest, darkest part of his soul, the corner that wants to possess ever atom of the woman beneath him. Oliver pulls all the way out of her wet heat and with a crunch of his powerful abdomen he slams back home, and just like that the demon is loosed. "God!" he seethes. "You don't know what you've done."

"Show me," she weeps.

At first, there's none of the infamous Oliver Queen finesse that kept the supermodels coming back for more, or the rumored game that men always brag about. What follows is only Oliver, naked and vulnerable as he pounds mercilessly into her, his body answering only to its desire and not the better angels of his conscience. His eyes sting with unshed tears and his chest throbs from an emotional gutting.

Felicity arches her shoulders, pressing her head further into the pillows; her lips squeeze shut securely to corral the rather indecent grunts each of his powerful strokes elicits from her. The sight of him looming over her, jaw clenched, his teeth gnashing with each crunch of his abdominals and ensuing surge of his sacrum, sets fire to the marrow in her bones. He is a rabid dog unable to summon his extraordinary control and she wouldn't think twice about putting her hand in the mouth of the beast.

Tension coils in the lower reaches of her belly, flaring brilliantly with each thrust of his pubic bone against hers. Once more she constricts her inner muscles around his cock, and a wave of breathless bliss spreads across her skin. "Yes!" she cries as he furiously pumps into her again and again. "Don't stop," she urges, her voice panting with wonder. "Don't stop."

Felicity's headboard knocks against the wall over and over, causing a raucous commotion, so Oliver reaches one hand up to take hold of it. His action serves to both provide him with more leverage, as well to muffle the sound of the wood slamming into the wall. Little can be done to dampen the ominous groans of the bedframe protesting beneath them.

His artless rhythm as he hammers into her is ferocious – without delicacy – but she doesn't care in the slightest. He is the Oliver Queen she always hoped she would meet one day; stripped of all his partitions and pretenses, he is his most primal self and completely hers. She will be bruised and battered by the time the lavender light of dawn breaks across her window, but she will savor each mark, each sore muscle, as a price well paid.

When his vision finally widens, Oliver watches intently as the myriad expressions of intense pleasure play across Felicity's face, one after another, like a living slideshow of erotic miracles. It registers that he isn't hurting her more than she can bear and he isn't scaring the rather considerable wits out of her. Oliver stumbles on a rhythm that helps him exorcise his demon while also producing a delightfully erotic mewling sound from the back of her throat.

Now more focused, Oliver changes his angle of penetration, embedding his cock so deeply in her he is rewarded with a moan she can't keep confined. "Okay?" he asks.

She nods and then suggests, "Faster?"

"You want-?" he asks, astounded by her request. A knot loosens in the center of his chest and his rage dissipates like ash in a strong wind.

"Yeah," she pants.

"How about…this?" In a swift move that leaves her off balance, Oliver grabs the back of one of her thighs, tucks his shoulder and is rolling them both until their positions are reversed. He shifts her body as though she weighs no more than her feather pillow, and the new angle is hitting her just right in all her most sensitive places.

Oliver props up on one hand, while the other grips her hip as she slides back down, seating herself fully over him with a satisfied groan. At first, she tests her movements, looking for maximum benefit with each endeavor. Circling her hips sends bursts of elation and white hot ecstasy pulsing through every nerve ending in her acutely sensitive passage. Her small hands clutch ruthlessly at his shoulders for balance, her fingernails leaving crescent shaped divots on his trapezii as her head falls back with a guttural cry.

Felicity rides him like that, her head thrown back, as the tension propelling her toward climax coils tighter and tighter. Watching her near her completion, for Oliver, is like observing the imminent birth of a celestial body. Her muscles strain for completion while her blood gathers beneath her skin; on the surface, a slick sheen of perspiration forms, all symptoms pointing to the inevitable ignition of an explosion just on the horizon.

In the last few months, Oliver's learned that Felicity Smoak has always been a beautiful woman in her own unique way – whether she's been understated and demure, or dressed the nines for some mission – but she's never been more stunning than when she's a heartbeat from going supernova in his arms. Stuttering in his chest, his heart races and he recognizes the signs of his own quickly approaching climax. More than anything, Oliver wants to hold out long enough to witness her implosion and the shock waves sure to follow. Only then, will he allow himself to be drawn into the vortex with her.

They work in concert to speed the arrival to their mutual destination. Using his shoulders as leverage, she rises up on his rigid cock over and over, each time to be fiercely pulled back down by the unyielding grip his hand has on her hip. As she spirals up and up towards her pinnacle she leans into him, her hands slide from his rock hard shoulders to his neck and then, ultimately, to sink into the soft, prickly hairs at the back of his head.

Her breasts bounce vigorously before his eyes, like bait on a hook, and he doesn't think twice about tipping his head forward and capturing one nipple between his teeth. Once procured he sucks the treat into his mouth and applies pressure until she rewards him with the desired effect.

"Oliver!" she cries, her voice echoing through the room. Her fingers grip more forcefully in his hair. Oliver mirrors her response by clutching harder at her hip, yanking her back down on his cock while sucking relentlessly on her breast. "Oh God!" she sobs.

Pleasure rapidly engulfs her, turning her body into a collection of uncontrollable actions and involuntary vocal responses. Critical thinking has left the building and all that remains is her primitive ambition to copulate and seek carnal gratification. She builds and builds and builds until she feels Oliver's bracing grip on her hip melt away. Looking down, she sees his calloused thumb slipping into her slick folds where their bodies meet and in slow motion make contact with her enflamed clit. The excruciating jolt of energy hits a mere nanosecond later and part of her wants to shy away from his firm touch. It's a desire born of a nonsensical reflex, because the last moment before Felicity's orgasm strikes is an agonizing eternity of pain – like being struck with an enormous wall of water prior to being blissfully swept out to sea.

But instead of shying away from his touch, she grinds into his thumb, creating an eruption of sensation that greys her vision around the edges, leaving her hovering on the edge of a full-on swoon. Her sweat-beaded forehead falls against his until they're breathing the same panted air. "Please," she begs, even though he's getting the job done in the most exquisitely satisfying manner.

"Felicity," he breathes, like a benediction. At last, it's her named breathed prayerfully on his lips that sparks her implosion.

"There," she gasps out, surprised somehow that the end she worked so hard for is now upon her. She bites her lower lip to keep from screaming with the sharpness of her climax as she clenches greedily around him. So intense is the fluttering, her body forgets to keep riding him, instead devolving into a slow rocking of her hips.

Both of Oliver's arms wrap securely around her and once again he's flipping them so that she's on her back, his chest melding with hers as he rests on his elbows, her trembling thighs too hopelessly weary to even drape around his waist. He's so close to coming, but her rocking hips aren't getting him the friction he needs. So, while her core is still tugging at him and she's still mindlessly in the throes of passion, he pounds into her, driving himself to completion. Already on the precipice of climax, it's only a few long, ardent pumps that bring the unmistakable and welcome contraction in his lower belly and in his balls.

When Oliver comes, all attempts at control vanish as he spills into her. Groans of exertion turn into primitive grunts of release muffled by the curve of her neck. His pelvis collides fitfully against hers until he has spent himself inside of her, before the muscles of his backside finally begin to ease and he collapses on top of her.

As Felicity's senses begin to return, her roaming fingers can his back jerk and twitch; his brain is sending random electrical signals to his depleted muscles. Oliver tries to move off of her, but she holds him fast, and he doesn't have the strength or will to separate from her just yet.

"Felicity," he breathes into her neck. Oliver places a kiss on the where he can feel the still-racing pulse through the delicate skin.

Stay," she commands, digging her fingertips into the rippling muscles of his back. Her legs, regaining some use, tangle with his in an effort to anchor him in place. "Just for another minute?" She doesn't want to feel him pull out of her – doesn't want to feel the emptiness that is sure to follow. So, even though she can barely breathe with his uninhibited weight upon her, she will cling to him for as long as she can bear it.

Oliver nods and brushes a tuft of damp, blonde hair from her face before dropping his lips to hers. She meets his kiss with equal fervor; unwilling to surrender the bubble of intimacy that now envelops them.

"I'm still here," she whispers into his kiss. "Because of you…I'm still here."

He grips her harder, as though the mere thought of it could rip her away from him. "I could have lost you."

"But you didn't."

"Not this time," he counters. Oliver can sense, at that moment, when her relaxed afterglow shuts off and her body tenses beneath him.

"Okay, wait a minute," Felicity sighs. She pushes on his shoulders, shoving him off of her, effectively breaking the spell of serenity surrounding them.

Oliver, disappointed at the loss of their warm connection, rolls onto his back. Lamenting his part in the broken spell between them, he wonders, "What did I do?"

Despite the change in position, Felicity follows him, plastering herself to the side of Oliver's body and with a hand on his rugged cheek she turns his face toward hers. "You listen to me, Oliver Queen." Oliver's eyes widen in response to the authority in her tone. "When I was in my sophomore year at MIT, I had a friend named Caroline. We were pretty close. There weren't a whole lot of women in the Computer Sciences department, so Caroline and I…well, it felt a little like it was us against the world. So, as you might imagine, I took notice when she didn't show up for a Signals and Systems class one day. Caroline wasn't one to skip classes. For the rest of day I called her, texted, whatever I could think of but I got no response. I knew in my gut that something was wrong. I had an important lab that day and I didn't have time to go back to the dorm so before the lab started I called the RA and asked her to check in on Caroline."

"And what happened?" Oliver asks, already knowing the story won't end happily.

"There was a coroner's van in front of the dorm when I got back," she answers, her throat constricting with the memory. "The RA found her in her bed; she'd been dead for hours. The police investigated, but the autopsy revealed that she had suffered a massive aortic aneurism. Nineteen years old and her life had just been snuffed out; and she wasn't murdered or killed in the line of duty in service to any ideals. Her own body betrayed her – a tiny tear in her aorta lying in wait for years, preparing to spring its death upon her. She went to sleep one night…a night like any other…and just didn't wake up. We all die, Oliver. And death comes for us in its own time, when it's good and ready. That's what I learned that day." Felicity's fingers gently brush against the bandage on his bicep where the Count's bullet grazed him. "I'm not the only one who had a close call tonight, so please stop acting like I am."

"I just want to keep you safe," he confesses.

"I know you do. But you can't keep me in a glass case like a museum piece. I need to live my life, Oliver. Make my own choices and my own mistakes. I know I have to be better at this, but I'm going to keep going out in the field when it needs to be done, because how else am I going to learn?" Felicity feels Oliver stiffen beside her and he turns his head away from her, staring up at the ceiling. "You'll teach me what I need to know," she says to his profile. "You and Dig." When he says nothing in reply to her statement, she tries another tack. "Or, when the sun comes up you can leave my apartment and pretend this never happened. We can just go on like we were before, quietly dying on the inside when we think the other might be in danger."

"No," he answers quickly. Oliver rolls onto his side to face her. "I don't want that option."

Felicity chuckles lightly, tension she didn't know she was holding seeping out through her laughter. "Good. I was really hoping you'd say that."

"Could you really pretend this never happened?" he inquires. For a moment, Felicity is dumbfounded by the glimpse of uncertainty she catches in his blue eyes.

"If I had to," she tells him, half-hoping it's the truth. "If it was the only way to keep _you_ safe."

Oliver considers the depth of strength he's seen Felicity display since they met. He doesn't know if that strength has always been there, revealed to him like the peeling of an onion, or if it had been discreetly acquired along the way as a consequence of being a part of his team, but in some ways, Oliver realizes, Felicity is capable of so much more than he is.

"I don't think I have the will to walk away from this." Oliver punctuates his announcement with a kiss, filling with Felicity with new sensations of warmth.

"Oliver?" she withdraws from the kiss to query.

He ripostes immediately, dipping back in to capture her lips once more before responding. "Yes?"

"So…what changed?" Felicity parries swiftly, deflecting his mouth to the column of her neck. She gulps anxiously, second-guessing her decision to pose the question that's been burning inside her since the moment she knew this was turning into something more than a kiss. She's seen the truth in his eyes, but sometimes when it comes to reading other people's intentions, Felicity hasn't always been on target. She has a tendency to over trust.

After all, it's been only a scant few weeks since she'd witnessed another woman leaving Oliver's hotel room, when a part of her heart crack open a little. And, as if that weren't enough, she had to listen to the old it-didn't-mean-anything chestnut, to be followed-up with a variation on the classic my-life's-too-dangerous-to-care excuse. It was a one-two punch to the gut that had her eyes tear ducts revving every time she thought about it for the next three days.

Oliver studies the concern in her eyes and knows exactly what's on her mind. "What I said earlier…about there not being a choice to make…that was true. When I was there in the moment, and he had you...there wasn't time to think, there was only time for action." He traces the shape of her cheekbone with the pad of his thumb, drawn by the alabaster glow of her skin, made even more luminescent by their activity. "But afterwards at the courthouse, I became overwhelmed by it; all the things that could have gone wrong. I started to wonder how keeping you at arm's length did either of us any good. Losing you would destroy me," he admits. "And choosing to not be with you…would only add to an already long list of regrets. I don't want you to be one of my regrets, Felicity. You mean too much to me for that."

"Finally," she exhales, "the man comes to his senses."

"That doesn't mean I know how any of this is going to work." Oliver shakes his head. His fingers now trace the sensitive raised ridge of her collarbone. He chuckles, the smile sparking to his eyes. "I spent the first few years on Lian Yu just trying to stay alive and then when I had that figure out – mostly – I started planning my return to Starling City. But you," his smile brightens. "You were a wild card, Ms. Felicity Smoak. Definitely not part of my plan."

"Is that good thing?"

"That is the best thing," he tells her. Oliver drops his head to her chest, his ear seeking the sound that makes him feel whole again.

Trying not to disturb him, Felicity gathers the goose down comforter around them as best as she can. Depleted from all the events of the last eighteen hours, her eyes are finally losing the fight to stay awake and she's certain that with Oliver Queen's rather substantial body wrapped around hers, she won't be dreaming about the Count anytime soon.

Her arm clutches around his back, while his leg is thrown over her lower body, with one arm pulling her tight to him. Just before she lets the darkness take her, it occurs to her that he's intentionally placed his body between her and the door, protecting her even in sleep.

Long after her breathing deepens and regulates Oliver brushes a kiss on her chest, just over the sound of her heartbeat. "You gave me back my soul," he whispers, "and I didn't see that coming."

He lays awake for a little while after that, until the morning light peeks through the curtains. When his eyes finally drift closed, his body is replete with satisfaction and his soul is lighter, the weight of one less demon rattling around inside of him.

The End


End file.
